


Pickling

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nonsense, Seduction, stupid use of italian dressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Mycroft arrives at Lestrade's expecting a meeting about his brother. What he finds is...something altogether unexpected.Just a bit of vaguely smutty, sorta cracky nonsense for Mottlemoth. Tumblr is a weird place; find me there @savvyblunders





	Pickling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



          With a light step Mycroft ascended the staircase to the third story and approached the second door on the left, slowing as he saw the door was ajar. Senses on alert, he took a firm grip on the malacca handle of his bespoke umbrella with his right hand and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the shaft. “Inspector?” 

         The reply was immediate, and heartening in its cheeriness, “Is that Mycroft? I left the door open for you. Come in! I’m up to my arse in salad dressing.”

         Arrested in the midst of wiping his handmade shoes on the welcome mat, Mycroft flicked through his memory of the phone call from Lestrade, who had mentioned he had some concerns about Sherlock and could he come right over? Lestrade normally met Mycroft on his home turf, coming to The Diogenes, or rarely, his subterranean office. This was the first time he’d requested Mycroft come to him. Already he had felt uncomfortable approaching the man’s home, much less at nine in the evening. He’d been concerned that he might find him in some sort of  _disarray_ ; now he appeared to be cooking.

        Lestrade would possibly be flushed. His incandescent hair might be mussed by impatient fingers. There was the potential for him to be wearing a novelty pinny. Mycroft felt the flush of hot blood move up his neck to his cheeks and he firmed his lips, ignored the tantalizing thought of Lestrade’s bare feet or exposed forearms as an impossibility, and entered the flat. The air was redolent of vinegar, the small lounge flowed into a tiny kitchenette and in the middle of the room was Lestrade. 

          Correction, in the middle of the room was the staggeringly nude form of Lestrade, lounging in a small inflatable wading pool. A pool which appeared to be full of Italian dressing and very long, very naked, very slick limbs.

         “Phuh,” said Mycroft.

         “Hullo! Excuse me for not getting up, but I’m not quite done yet.”

         “Gleb,” excused Mycroft.

         “Take a seat, won’t you?” Lestrade gestured at one of the straight backed chairs tucked under his small dinette and smiled in a very friendly fashion. “It’s late, I know, and out of your way, so I appreciate you coming. I wanted a chance to talk to you in private where Sherlock’s not liable to interrupt us.”

         “Oh?” Asked Mycroft, inordinately proud of himself for making a sensible sound. With extreme force of will he kept his eyes away from the flannel doing an inadequate job of covering Lestrade’s vital parts. The flannel was saturated with oil and clung with loving familiarity to every bulge and swell. Speaking of swelling...

         “Hope the smell’s not too strong for you,” Lestrade commented, waving an expressive hand, “I  wrap a bedsheet in vinegar and soak in that for fifteen minutes before I climb in with the oil. The vinegar tones the skin and the oil hydrates it. Old hedgewitch method my nan taught me.” He grinned cheekily, “Keeps me from looking like driftwood after I’ve spent two weeks on hols on the Costa del Sol.”

         “How very holistic,” Mycroft managed an entire sentence with a sense of accomplishment. Really it was remarkable he could speak at all, given that the majority of the blood in his body had apparently migrated south and was pooling hotly in his groin. 

          “I’m nice and slick now,” Lestrade explained, “I like to soak for a half hour, then have a hot shower.”

          Dear  _Lord_ , the very idea of an oil-slicked Greg Lestrade standing nude under geysers of hot water, glimpsed amidst snowy soap bubbles and wafting steam... Mycroft swallowed dryly and tried to think of something, anything, to say. His mind practically whistled to the lonesome sound of wind rustling amongst a great lot of nothing. All he could think of was what Lestrade’s skin would taste like, how very, very long it would take for him to wash away the oil, how incredibly soft his skin would be under Mycroft’s fingertips.

          A soft splash interrupted his reverie, and Mycroft glanced hungrily at the man relaxing opposite him. So disordered were his thoughts that he neglected to hide the strength of his desire and one look at Lestrade confirmed that his naked longing was visible. A lusty sigh whooshed out of Lestrade, who broke into a sunny smile, “Thank fuck, I was afraid I’d have to do naked handsprings up and down the pavement outside your club before you’d notice me.”

         “P-pardon?”

         Lestrade shifted, climbing carefully to his feet, oil sloshing and dribbling and pattering down into the pool. The flannel peeled away and then naught stood between Mycroft’s hungry, sluttish eyes and the fully naked glory of Greg Lestrade. The bulges and swells more than kept their promise. “It takes a while to wash all this oil off,” Lestrade husked, eyes burning hotly into Mycroft’s with unmistakable intent, “Could use an extra pair of hands, ‘f ya know what I mean.”

         Mycroft’s exceptional and agile mind crafted and considered several possible outcomes of his acceptance in record time; three of them would end in familial embarrassment due solely to his younger brother, one would most certainly end in his complete emotional devastation, two could more than likely cause a degree of professional embarrassment for himself and Lestrade and all of them had far-reaching ramifications.

        “You are in luck, Inspector,” Mycroft drawled, hooking his umbrella over the back of the chair and beginning to peel his black leather gloves off, one finger at a time, holding Lestrade’s gaze all the while (Lestrade was not the only one versed in seduction). “My hands are skilled,” he dropped the gloves on the chair and moved closer, “willing,” he stepped right up next to the pool and slid one hand up the unbearably sleek and delicious chest to curve around the back of Lestrade’s neck, as he pulled him in for a kiss, “and very, very dexterous.”

        “Mmmm,” Lestrade moaned into his mouth, bringing his oily hands up to frame Mycroft’s face as he returned the kiss. He gasped a little as Mycroft pulled back and began to nibble at his jaw and neck, “hope I don’t, _Christ_ , taste like a pickle.”

        “I happen to love pickles,” Mycroft promised darkly, licking a stripe up Lestrade’s neck and lightly savaging his earlobe. “Yours is a very fine specimen indeed, Inspector.”

         “Fuck me,” Lestrade sighed, melting against Mycroft, uncaring of the wool he was wrecking.

         “Oh Inspector,” Mycroft promised, scooping him off his feet and striding toward the bedroom, heedless of his ruined suit, dripping oil or the consequences, “I intend to.”


End file.
